


Losing it

by izfairy



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Deaf Character, Disability, Gen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izfairy/pseuds/izfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's losing it... his hearing. What else will he sacrifice when his life changes? What will he gain?</p><p>Set during the 2007 Honda Civic tour</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rewriting this fic just now to make it a (hopefully) more accurate portrayal of hearing loss. So no new chapters will be up on this one - will post the rewrite if it turns out better.  
> IzFairy

I’m staring at the telly again, watching Hayley Williams pose at the camera in Paramore’s latest music video. I know Pete likes the background noise, and it’s barely audible besides, but sometimes this stuff feels like work. Looking away, I give my head a shake. That’s the kind of attitude I need not to have a week before we go on tour.  
“I think I might drive to the beach today.” I shout into the kitchen where Pete is making coffee.  
He wanders back through, two mugs in hand. Hemmingway lifts his head in interest, lowering it again when he sees the mugs, sniffing at the air a little to check for hidden treats. Pete hands me a mug, slouching into the armchair with the other.  
“I’m going to miss good coffee.” He mutters, taking a sip and smiling satisfyingly.  
I smirk as I lift the Christmassy mug, enjoying the sweet aftertaste of Andy’s almond milk. “Want me to grab anything while I’m out?” It prompts me to ask.  
“Nah.” Pete smiles wryly; someone else must have that covered.  
“You meeting Elisa?” He asks in return; keeping us on par.  
I shake my head, “Maybe later.”  
“Well, don’t forget Dirty’s tonight.”  
I shrug but I know it’s not just a social meeting. Joe and Andy will be there and probably the cobra boys too. I can read subtext well enough to know it’s tour prep. 

The next few minutes pass slowly as I sip my hot coffee. Pete and I can read each other pretty well now, but we’re ignoring each other’s anxiety; wrapped up in our own. He’s waiting for me to invite him along… but I don’t. I cast glances in his direction as I head for the door. I know he’ll sit there most of the day, cuddling into Hemingway as he flicks through the channels, wondering if this is the rock star lifestyle he signed up for.

**

I know I’m at the beach when the air turns cold and the sun reflects brightly from the water’s surface. I turn off the engine and the radio shuts off with it. The song is stuck in my head, playing over and over as I wander to the sand. Sweating in my hoody, I relish the quiet, cool breeze. The sea’s a long drive from Chicago, so I settled for Lake Michigan. There’s no salty air and the waves are barely crashing, but it’s still the peaceful escape I was craving.

Closing my eyes, I can feel my surroundings, my head already adding its own soundtrack. I sing it quietly, my eyes still closed. Oh wa oh wa oh… I nod my head to the beat, tapping the riff on my knees. My head filled with music, I can relax. I search the rhythms for the source of my tension, but I’m hiding it even from myself. What’s wrong Patrick?

This tour is a good thing. Why am I worried about it? We need to spend more time as a band. We need to concentrate on the music, each other, let the rest of life’s problems take a backseat. We need to get in touch with the fans again; unwrap ourselves from our own stupid, irrelevant, domestic problems. We need to remind Pete that he’s the front man of a pretty big rock band and shouldn’t spend his days feeling sorry for himself on the couch. We need to feel that buzz you can’t get anywhere else, when your feet touch stage and the crowd goes wild for you. 

Why am I worried?

I throw rocks into the lake, trying to cast away my anxieties. This rock is for being away from Elisa. This rock is for the arguments that always come when we live on top of each other. This rock is for leaving the sweet city of Chicago, and from my studio. This rock is for the things I won’t say.

**

Dirty’s house is bustling. I’m late and Pete’s not happy: he catches my eye as I squeeze through the crowded doorway and into the garden. He’s talking to a woman I don’t know and they’re all fake smiles and laughter. I wonder if she’s from the label or just another groupie. I wince as I realise how insensitive that sounds and pick my way through the crowd. Ryan Ross catches my eye from the back of the garden; a fellow introvert looking as uncomfortable as I feel.  
“Don’t take my isolation as indifference man,” Ryan defends as I stroll toward him. “This tour’s going to be great.”  
“It’s okay,” I reply, wondering how much he’s had today. “I’m not in the mood either. Sides, no-one told me this was a send-off party – I would have invited Alisa.”  
Ryan frowns, “You were there when he was planning it, weren’t you?”  
I shrug, “I only listen to like 50% of what Dirty has to say – best for the mental health.”  
Ryan laughs, “Too true.” We could all do with hearing a little less about Dirty’s personal life and crazy ideas.

“How’s the album coming along?” I ask as the conversation lulls.  
Ryan nods enthusiastically, “I’ve got bits and pieces written all around the house – I think I’m driving the guys crazy but you know, if they helped maybe it wouldn’t bother them so much. We’ve got a few demos recorded; it’s all still pretty rough around the edges.”  
“Hey, you can ask for my help you know?” I laugh, my voice sounding more bitter than I’d have liked. “Pete’s in charge of Decaydance but we’re a team, even if we are somewhat dysfunctional.”  
Ryan’s laughing again, and mumbles something with his head down. I smile and wait for him to ask, while Dirty shouts something way behind us. The atmosphere’s getting tense, or maybe I’m making it tense, but I change the conversation anyway, giving myself an escape.  
“Dirty should not be allowed near fire.”  
Ryan nods in agreement, “He’s probably flammable enough without being a reckless idiot.”  
Reckless idiot he may be, but he’s our reckless idiot, and we need him whole to keep us (in)sane on tour. “I should go check he’s not planning anything… Dirty.” I excuse myself.

“Pat!” Dirty shouts as he spots me, “Have a beer!”  
“Saving the voice.” I gesture, trying not to wince at the nickname.  
He tosses me a burger instead, which I have no choice but to accept – the start of tour diet. “Where’s the lady?”  
“I didn’t invite her.” I admit.  
The glint in Dirty’s eye tells me he’s about to fist bump my mistake.  
“I’m probably not going to stay long anyway.” The buzz of conversations around us means I have to concentrate on Dirty’s lips to work out what he’s saying; between that and the sunshine, my head is killing. Yet as soon as I admit my plans to Dirty, I know I’ve made a mistake. His aim for this evening is now to keep me here no matter what. He’s shouting the boys over, crowding them around us, telling me I have to stay, that it would be rude to leave. I fold under peer pressure and tell them ‘fine, I’ll stay’.

**

I’m lounged across Dirty’s couch with my head in my hands, trying to stem the pain that’s built up in the last half hour, when someone puts their hands over mine. They’re soft, familiar, feminine.  
“I have pills in my bag.” It’s Elisa.  
“Yes please.” I reply, turning to kiss her hello.  
Her lips are safe and warm, comforting. I pull her in for another, feeling needy, but she pulls away, digging around in her handbag for the promised medication.  
“Let’s not spoil the party – Dirty’s gone to a lot of effort to do this for you guys.”  
I shrug, “You’re the only one I want to say goodbye to.”  
“All in good time.” Elisa smiles, “But for now you’re alliance is to them.” She nods in the direction of the patio doors, kissing me softly on the cheek as I turn my head.  
I drag myself from the couch, running on her promise alone.

She’s always been better at socialising than me. I guess that’s why I call her my better half – she brings out the best in me. She drags me up from the couch and pours me a glass of cranberry juice, folding my fingers around the stem of the glass.  
“It’ll stop people offering you drinks.” She explains in reply to my quizzical expression, kissing my slightly parted lips. “Now smile.”  
She strides into the garden, unfazed by Dirty’s wolf whistle welcome. Borrowing her confidence, I stroll in behind her, finding comfort in the glass she’s occupied my hands with. At the end of the garden, I see Ryan’s sold his anxiety to the spliff between his lips. My escape is music, but somehow it’s less socially acceptable to stick my headphones in and turn it up loud. Instead I stand beside Dirty’s massive speakers and drown out the conversations that were making my head buzz. Dirty’s music taste is bearable with a bit of Kiss and classic Bowie weaved in amongst the boppiness of Limp Bizkit and Sum 41 (I wish I’d thrown a rock at the beach for fighting over the tour bus radio controls – it’s surprising how much we argue about music when we’re all in the same band). When Cobra Starship’s frontman Gabe Saporta comes to greet me I motion to the speakers and shrug, and he soon gets the message and finds someone else to small talk. The trick serves me well for most of the evening, and I manage to keep myself out of the way.

We’re all waiting for someone to do something stupid, yet somehow Dirty has survived the barbequing without doing anything too pyromaniac (his eyebrows still intact and everything). It’s getting late and there’s a chill in the air as the sun sets. But of course, it wouldn’t be a rock star party without some drama. 

Pete’s voice. It doesn’t matter how crowded and noisy a room is, I could pick out Pete’s voice. That and he’s shouting. I just hope it’s not at anyone from the support bands; we don’t want to make this tour more awkward.  
“You don’t know, you little shit.” He spits at a man I don’t recognise.  
“I don’t need to, I can make my own mind up.” The man replies smugly.  
“Keep it in your little mind then – don’t go telling people that bullshit you’ve created.”  
“Created based on truth.”  
I can see Pete’s temple pulsing – he’s holding himself back, but whoever this fucker is he’s pushing his luck. I don’t even have to think about it, I just find myself in the crowd around them, fighting my way to Pete’s side. That’s what we do, we support each other.  
“Here comes your girlfriend.” The guy shouts, pointing straight at me. Everyone twists to look at me, but I’m looking right at Pete, and I don’t care what they think. I want to take his hand, pull him away, but one look at his face tells me he’s not finished here, and he won’t leave until he’s set this guy straight.  
‘What’s this about?’ I mouth to Pete, but he’s trying to shrug me off, to prove his own worth.  
Pete’s already looking at him with rage in his eyes when the man mumbles, “Oh, go take an antidepressant, you pansy.”  
Did he just say… I’m not through with the thought when Pete’s fist is headed for the man’s face. I lurch forward for him, to pull him back, but the man has ducked and Pete’s fist drives straight into the side of a passing lady’s face. A day before tour. Bad press. Law suits. That’s what I’ll hear about tomorrow, but today I’m watching Dirty chase this guy down the cul-de-sac, I’m watching Pete storm off to isolate himself while he calms down, and I’m watching blood drip from this poor, stunned, innocent party goer.

**

We’re sat at Dirty’s kitchen table as she holds an icepack to her nose, which has, thank God, stopped bleeding. I’m apologising for Pete again, and she’s… still not saying anything at all (honest, she hasn’t even told me her name). Yet she’s got these really big blue eyes, and I can’t stop fucking looking at them.  
“Want me to get anyone for you? Or ring anyone? Or get you a drink or anything?” I’m talking enough for both of us, but she doesn’t seem to mind the silences that keep arising.  
She keeps drawing her hand across her sore cheek, and I keep fumbling with mine, muttering apologies. Her free hand lifts my head. I’m blushing as our eyes meet, making the situation even more awkward. She shakes her head at me, and puts her finger on my lips. I’m trying to understand when there’s a cough from the doorway, where Elisa stands staring.

“What’s going on?”  
She looks hurt, but I can’t explain, because I don’t know myself. She takes my hesitation to speak more than words could.  
“That’s how it is, is it?” She’s shouting.  
I’m on my feet, looking back at the silent girl, “I have to go.” I say without explanation, but she’s nodding – gesturing to the door. Her fingers walk away through the air, following Elisa.

Elisa doesn’t looking angry. She looks upset. Somehow, that’s worse.  
“Pete accidently punched her in the face.” I reason.  
“I know. I saw.”  
“So I tidy up after him. You know that.”  
“By kissing her.”  
“I didn’t kiss her. I was talking to her. But she wasn’t talking back.”  
Elisa just looks at me. It doesn’t take her long to reveal her true feelings. “You think I don’t know how pretty she is?”  
“You really think I’d do that to you? You really have that little faith in me?” I snap back.  
She shrugs, avoiding my eye. Neither of us want to argue when I’m leaving tomorrow. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” I pull her into an embrace, squeezing her tightly. She holds me too, just feeling me close to her, smiling. I take in her softness, breathe in her goodness. “I want to keep you all to myself.” She whines, but I can hear in her voice she’s okay. I stroke her hair softly, losing my hand amongst her curls.

“Guys, mind if I interrupt for a second?” Gabe asks, drawing us apart.  
I’m ready to say no, this has nothing to do with you, when I turn to see him standing with the girl from the kitchen. “What is it?” I ask him impatiently, eager to take Elisa home.  
“I’d just like to thank you for looking after my sister, Dani, and to pass on a message for her.”  
The girl’s holding out her hand for Elisa to shake, who takes it tentatively, unable to hide her sour expression.  
“Dani’s deaf and mute, but she wants to apologise to Elisa, because she’d hate for your kindness to cause you trouble.” Gabe reports, pulling a face at the sickliness of the message.  
I feel like an idiot for not realising that she was trying to talk with her hands earlier. Elisa must feel like an idiot too because she’s gone red and she’s looking Dani in the eyes as she asks Gabe to tell her she’s sorry for overreacting. Dani’s hands move again and Gabe translates, “She says ‘I can lip read pretty well.’” He turns to me, “When you see Pete, tell him I’ll get him back later.” I nod, but there’s no way I’m passing on that message. Pete’s been acting sensitive enough recently; he’s probably beating himself up enough for the both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

“Just ignore it,” I whisper to Elisa, “He’ll go away.”  
But she’s already pushing me off, reaching for her phone to check the time. “Maybe you’re late for the tour?” Her face is riddled with genuine concern. I want to kiss it.  
Sighing, I climb away from her gorgeous body, kissing it as I go. I pull boxers on over my boner and glance at my dressing gown on the bedroom door.  
“What if there’s paps?”  
There are never paps. But if there were, it would be when I answer my door in a dressing gown.  
I pull on jeans and a green t-shirt, running a hand though my sweaty hair. That’s when my phone starts to ring.

It’s our manager, Doug.  
“I’m at your front door.”  
“Right.”  
“Where are you?”  
“I’m in my bedroom.”  
“Are you going to let me in then?”  
“I thought we weren’t meeting till 10.”  
“We’re not. I need to speak to you. I didn’t think you’d be busy.”  
“I was busy.”  
“Right.”  
I let him in.

“What’s going on?” He’s staring at me without even touching his coffee. He’s clocked my boner but he says nothing about it, indifferent to his unscheduled interruption. “Don’t play dumb. I heard about last night. I know that’s not all, either.”  
I shrug, trying not to meet his eye to acknowledge the situation in my pants. “I don’t know who he was, but he was winding Pete up about his depression.” He waits for me to go on, his face emotionless. “Pete socked him one and the coward ducked and ran off. End of story.”  
“That’s not what I heard from Gabe Saporta.”  
“If you know what happened then why are you asking?”  
“I want to know if Pete’s relapsing, or whatever the fuck it’s called with mental illness.”  
“Why would I know?”  
He looks me in the eye. We both know I’d know.  
“He’s fine. It was just a one-off.”  
“You better make sure it was.” With that, he lifts his coffee and downs it in one. He must have a mouth made of asbestos. “See you at 9:55.”

I’m pulling off my clothes as I jog back up the stairs, but Elisa is already out of bed and in the shower. I let myself into the bathroom quietly and climb in beside her, wrapping my arms around her wet body and planting kisses on her neck.  
“What did he want?”  
“Shh,” I almost place my finger on her lips, but just manage to stop myself. I think she notices anyway.  
Her expression is cold. “It was about last night, right? Is Pete in trouble?”  
Sighing, I step out of the shower, waiting for her to finish. Even though she’s lost the vibe, I can’t stop staring at her wet skin. “Not yet.”  
“What does that mean?”  
I look at her eyes then. “It means I need to keep an eye on him.”

* *

The table is littered with lists… tour dates, set lists, instrument lists, bookings and passes. I’m listening to instructions from our manager, our promotions team; repeating everything we need to remember. I’m trying to commit it to memory, because looking around: really everyone else is hung over. Except Andy of course; we keep shooting each other these looks and I know he’ll keep Joe on track if I keep Pete. I’ve definitely drawn the short straw. Pete has at least made it through the night because he’s slumped sour faced in his chair, not even trying to look like he’s listening. It’s all on me. I pump him full of coffee in the break, reminding him it’s his last time to enjoy it. He mumbles something inaudible into his mug, forcing me to ask him what he’s saying.  
“I’m just trying to apologise.” He grumbles.  
Pete’s not usually one to apologise, so I accept it without delving further into the events, “We’re all just stressed.” I excuse him, “Let’s forget about it.”

He doesn’t seem convinced so I change the conversation in an attempt to lighten his mood. “Pete, the crowd are going to love that we’re opening with ‘Dance, Dance’, remember when that got picked for single, and I was all like, no way?”  
A smile is sneaking across his lips, “I kept telling you it was good.”  
“Yeah but when do we agree on music?” I’m smiling too, basking in the warmth of our friendship.  
“It’s the fucking Michael Jackson From Under the Cork Tree.”  
I snigger, “You know what I’m looking forward to the most? ‘Where is your boy?’ That song just makes me think about how far we’ve come.”  
“Yeah, that gig where you’re Mum was like our best supporter there, and then Andy was like dude, I think I have better things to do with my time than this.”  
“Mmhhm, and we had to buy him that fake ice-cream for like a month to keep him quiet. It’s funny how things change.”  
“You’ve changed. That song makes me think about how much more developed your vocals are now, compared with when we first released that.”  
I’m trying not to blush. “And my guitar! I was so bad at guitar back then… now I can hear your notes before you even play them, just looking at your hands on your bass, Joe’s too.”  
“Yeah, I don’t know why you hadn’t learned guitar till then! Call yourself a musician!”  
We’re both laughing, letting ourselves be proud for a moment, not worrying about the path ahead. “Ask me which song I’m looking forward to the most?” Pete prompts me.  
I shrug, “Surprise me.”  
“You’re acoustic set of Golden, and the way your voice is going to fill every corner of every room we play, melting fucking hearts dude.”  
I punch him in the arm playfully and there’s silence for a while, his complement hanging in the air around us, making the atmosphere gentle and forgiving. “We’re headlining Honda Civic. This is real right?” I whisper, “The same guys that still rehearse in your Dad’s garage?”  
Pete’s smile is so contagious, it makes me warm inside to know I’m putting it right there on his face. “That’s us.”

**

Opening night is always a little different to the rest. The air has a little more anticipation, a little more anxiety. I’m in the wings, listening to +44 and thinking Mark Hoppus is a genius, I can’t believe we’re touring with him. I’m worried he’ll upstage us, but Pete has a hand on my shoulder, mouthing, they’re here for us. He always knows what I’m thinking. At the end of the set Mark is hyping the crowd for the rest of the night, and I’m listening as they show their support for Panic! At The Disco and Cobra Starship who played earlier.  
“Who’s that other band again?” He feigns ignorance, and they’re chanting our name, alive with excitement. It pulses through me. I high five Mark as they come off stage, leaving the crowd chanting, and he tugs me close, slapping my back, ‘Knock ‘em dead’ he mouths.

We don’t even do our own sound check anymore. The tech crew are on stage, switching the drums and setting up the gear, triple checking everything is still in tune. They’re even resizing the mic to my height without even having me on stage. The crowd screams as they turn on our lights, and it’s not long before Andy takes the stage, testing his kit with a quick drum solo. Everything seems to be in order, so Joe’s up next, with Pete following close behind. 

She says she’s no good, with words but I’m worse, barely stuttered out a joke of a romantic, or just stuck to my tongue.

The lyrics course through me, and I’m feeling them like they were my own, bringing them to life. I play to the crowd, teasing them as Pete and Joe jump around like they’ve had too much sugar. My feet are shaking with the vibrations of Andy’s beats. I let the music take me away.

Pete’s already talking up the crowd as a catch my breath, barely listening to his ramblings. I’m riding the adrenaline but Golden comes around before I know it, the tech guys handing me my acoustic, Pete coming up close to remind me to introduce this one myself.  
“I don’t know how many of you have managed to get the new album yet?”  
The crowd answers in cheers and indecipherable screams.  
“Yeah?” I look to Pete to share my disbelief in their faith, but he’s already behind the curtain, probably downing a quick beer. “Well I’m going to need to see all your cell phones, get ‘em out.” I watch the venue light up, “I know you’ve got more than that!”  
My fingers strum the first chord and stop, tantalising the crowd. I motion for the sound guy to turn it up, and the crowd whoop at my gesture. And then… I let it out. 

How cruel, is the golden rule? When the lives we live are only golden plated…


	3. Chapter 3

Pete lay awake, eyes closed, waiting. After the show they were too hyped to sleep so they chilled upstairs in the venue for a while, catching up with each other and listening to the sounds of the sleepless city. They had their own drivers now; they could live the real rock star life. Only there was no crazy after party, no groupies old enough for anyone to appreciate, just a bunch of exhausted old guys retiring to bed one by one until Pete was alone with a beer. Beer stopped working for him long ago; when you’re 18 being constantly drunk might seem cool, but add ten years and there’s no bigger clue that you’re falling apart. He could see the signs; feel the waves of sadness and self-doubt ripping into him more every day. When he read his blog, he never knew when hate mail was going to spring up, casting shadow over the messages of admiring fans that kept him going. He hoped the crowds on tour would revitalise him, push out the fears and self-loathing. So why did looking into their faces fill him with shame, make him feel so derisory? Tomorrow would be better… it had to be better.

He’d been laying on the bunk in the van for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, waking up in a sweat and dropping off again. Andy getting up and heading for a shower was the sign it was safe to ‘wake up’ without having people realise he wasn’t sleeping and start to worry. Just to be safe he lay listening for a while; the sound of Andy shampooing his long hair in the adjacent shower room, the drip of the shower shutting off as he got dry and dressed, the bubble of the kettle boiling as he made morning coffee. Pete already missed the friendly thwack of Hemingway’s tail wagging, the roughness of his tongue on his face, waking him up for breakfast. Andy was less excited to be sharing his breakfast time with Pete, acknowledging him with a nod and a ‘good morning’, keeping his eyes, and his mind, on the newspaper.  
“What’s up?” Pete sensed the tension in the air between them.  
“I’ll tell you later.”  
That’s something you should know about Andy – he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t even hide the truth. What you see is what you get; straight edge, and straight talking.   
Pete wanted to pursue it, to demand to know, to tell him that later never comes, but he just shrugged and walked away… back to bed with the latest copy of Kerrang!.

But later did come, at a pit stop where Patrick took a wake-up leg stretch after sleeping through his alarm.  
“Pete!” It’s Joe who summoned him to the couch area, “Can we talk?”  
“Sure.” Pete answered calmly, but his pulse had picked up a little as he wondered what his band mates had noticed.  
“I’m going to get straight to the point,” warned Andy, “Do you think Patrick was a little out of time last night?”  
“Just in some places.” Joe added for clarity.  
Yeah Pete noticed, but he didn’t think they did. He thought it was just him being a perfectionist. He thought it was just him being overly in tune with what Patrick was doing. But if they noticed, maybe the fans did too. Making a mental note to check the reviews later, Pete’s brain rushed to defend Patrick, as he’s always done for him.  
“Cut him some slack guys, it was opening night, he was just nervous about his solo. Besides, his voice never faltered all night, he was right on key.” But even as Pete said it he was wondering if he’d missed something, cursing himself for being so self-involved. He wanted to ask his friends what it could be, if Patrick might need their help, but instead he said, “I bet he’ll be fine tonight, once we let him know that he nailed that solo.”

Pete’s pulse was still racing, though he tried his best to hide it. Because despite loving Patrick and wanting the very best for him, Pete was selfishly worrying that if Patrick was falling apart, who would put Pete back together? And he hated himself just for thinking it.

**

The buzz from last night’s crowd is slowly wearing off, the worrying worming its way back in. I even use my phone to google stress relievers when I realise I’ve slept in through my alarm. Google suggests a walk, and I figure a bit of fresh air has to be better than trapping myself in the tour bus. Our driver, Sam, says we have time, and Joe seems almost too enthusiastic about the idea. So I bung in my earphones and turn it up, taking myself away.

Only, when I get back Pete’s got this weird look on his face which means he’s deep inside his own head. That gets me chewing on my lip a little, wondering if Doug was onto something.  
“Your solo was great last night.” He almost falls over himself to tell me.  
“Thanks, it was a good crowd.”  
“It was. How’re you feeling about tonight?”   
I shrug, “There’s nothing quite like it, is there?”  
Pete smiles, “Nothing at all. It’s nice to be wanted.”  
I put my earphones back in to tell him the conversations over, sitting on the bed while I check my email and the blogs I follow. From the corner of my eye I can see Pete watching me.

**

In Kansas City, we’re sat in Nandos enjoying a preshow meal. Andy’s smiling broadly, looking forward to a hearty bean burger. When it’s as awkward as it is for Andy to get hold of good food, I guess he appreciates it more when he finds something great. They’re not playing any background music, which I find a little strange, and just like at Dirty’s barbecue the background chatter is becoming a problem. Only this time, Elisa isn’t here to bail me out. Joe’s talking about this new videogame (at least, I think that’s what he’s talking about), but I can’t keep up with the conversation, missing most of his words. I try to distract myself by reading the menu or arranging the condiments, but the other guys are following the conversation without a single ‘what?’ or ‘hmm’; filling the room with their laughter. Feeling left out, I try not to direct my frustrations toward them, knowing it’s not their fault.  
Pete nudges me in the ribs, “Oi, earth to Patrick?”  
I shake myself awake, “Sorry Pete, what’s up?”  
“Are you alright? Seriously, you’ve been really… distant?”  
I shrug, “I don’t feel great - my head’s killing.”  
“Are you going to be alright for the show?”  
I nod: nothing stops me doing a show. Nothing.

The waitress interrupts that thought, appearing to take our order. Only, I don’t hear her. I know exactly what she said, but I just don’t hear it.  
“Oh my God, you’re Fall Out Boy right?” Her lips say.  
Her voice is probably chipper, excited, high-pitched. But I don’t hear it. Somehow her words get into my head without making a sound. I try to look natural but inside I’m freaking out, searching for an explanation. Pete’s hand settles on my arm gently and I turn to face him, a goofy grin on my face, hoping that this is just some prank.  
“Are you ok?” He asks anxiously.   
I hear him; not just the words but his voice too, and I can’t make sense of any of it.   
“Patrick?”  
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”  
Pete doesn’t look convinced. “Would you give the lady your order then?”  
“What?”  
“She’s asked you about three times Patrick. Are you sure you’re okay?”  
I’m not okay. I turn to face her but she’s just looking at me like I’m crazy. I feel crazy.  
“What can I get you?”  
There they are again, words without a voice. Words as clear as day, but sound lost in the blur of the chattering room. And suddenly I get it, thought I don’t want to believe it. My stomach flips and a coldness courses up my spine making me shiver. I’m going to cause a scene either way, and can only try my best to avoid the staring eyes of the whole dinner table as I quickly get to my feet and rush to the bathroom.

Heading straight for the cubicle, I’ve thrown up before I can even close the door behind me; my arms shaking against the toilet seat, my legs crumbling beneath me. Surely I couldn’t be… just thinking the words make me sick again. I need my music. I know I’ve been listening to music. I know I hear the muffled flush of the toilet, the thump of my fist against the wall, my own voice screaming, “What is happening to me?”  
Because I don’t understand. Not really. It’s just a theory. 

Pete’s never seen me like this. When I turn around he’s stood there watching me shake and I don’t know how long it’s been. Only, I can guess, because his expression mirrors my own: fear.  
“What’s wrong, Patrick?”  
There’s his voice, quivering beautifully as he speaks. Why can I hear his voice, but not the voice of the waitress, and not Joe’s when he tells his story in a busy restaurant? I know the answer. I’ve known it since meeting Dani, but I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.  
So when Pete says, “Pat, don’t ignore me.” I know that I was never really hearing him to begin with. How long for? How long have I been making up the noises I hear? Putting the voices I know to the words I can work out? More importantly, what else have I been making up? Not the music. Please not the music.

Pete watches my eyeballs dilate. His hand finds my shoulder, rooting me to the ground, no not the ground, rooting me to him. I let myself fall against him desperately. My brain says don’t tell him, he doesn’t need your shit to deal with, but my throat is burning with the acidity of puke and tears, and my heart is aching for comfort. Holding his sides as I shake, I let myself need him.  
“Pete I’m scared.” I whisper into his chest.

If he replies I don’t hear him, just feel his arms around me, shuffling me into the cubicle and locking us in, collapsing against the toilet.  
“What am I going to do?” I whimper.  
I want him to answer. I want him to tell me how to get through this. Most of all, I want him to tell me it’s not happening. In hearing nothing until I look up at him, he tells me the opposite: it’s all real.  
“Stop it!” I beg my head, “Stop playing this trick on me, please, just for now, let me not hear.”  
Pete’s shouting before I hear him, his hands digging into me as he forces me to face him. “Pat, there’s no-one here, it’s just us.”  
“Sorry.” I mumble, my voice hoarse and dry. “I was talking to myself.”  
Pete reruns my sentence in his head, “If you’re hearing voices, that’s something you can tell me. You know that, right? You know I’d understand?”  
I almost laugh at the irony. “It’s not like that, Pete. I’m not hearing voices. I’m not hearing anything.”  
But he still doesn’t get it. “Pat, please tell me… you know… God Pat, you know my brain’s fucked up too… Pat… Pat are you listening?”

I am listening. I’m watching his lips move and wondering how the hell his words are getting inside my head. “Pete…” I don’t know how to say it, how to show him my world.  
“Pat? Pat are you about to kiss me?” His lips are smiling now, flashing his perfect teeth as his eyes twinkle with the cheekiness of his grin.  
I might have done if I hadn’t been so deep in thought. I was never good with words: all that’s left is the truth. “Pete… I’ve been lip reading.”  
He’s frowning, cocking his head to the side as he tries to make sense of my words. But he can’t. “What do you mean you’ve been lip reading?”  
When your world is too weird for Pete Wentz to understand, you know something is up.   
“I mean I couldn’t hear what that waitress was saying but I could read her lips. I couldn’t hear Joe’s ramblings because of all the other noise in the restaurant and because he wasn’t looking at me when he spoke. I had my mic turned up last night because I couldn’t hear my guitar, and I thought my iPod was on the blink but it wasn’t, it was my ears, Pete. My ears are broken.”  
Pete’s just staring at me, frozen.  
“I know it makes no sense Pete but it’s the only explanation. I was stupid enough to believe the world was getting quieter. But in truth I was just getting further away. Pete, why are you smiling?”  
He tries to wipe the smile away with the back of his hand, “Sorry… I’m just so glad you’re not crazy Patrick. I know it’s fucking stupid but I know crazy. I am crazy. I didn’t want that for you.”  
I shrug away his sentiment. I don’t feel like I’m not crazy right now. I don’t feel like I’ve been blessed with some kind of escape. I feel afraid. “What am I going to do?” Dragging my phone out of my pocket I glance at the time, “Pete we’re on stage in like two and a half hours.”

“Alright. I need details Pat. When did this start?”  
“I don’t know. I didn’t realise, not until the waitress. I guess… I guess my head was filling in the gaps for my ears.”  
“Shit dude, are you okay? I mean, can I just hold you for one second?”  
“Pete, the show?”  
“Pat this is bigger than one show. This is your whole life.”  
I pull free his grasp. He knows how I feel about shows. “Nothing is bigger than a show. Not for twelve year old me who was excited for like a year when my dad told me he had tickets to Bowie’s 50th birthday bash with the Foos, and Sonic Youth, and The fucking Cure. Not for thirteen year old me who was nobody in a crowd of thousands at Mariah Carey. And not for dorky, perfectionist me who had to correct your classification of Neurosis and ended up trying out for Fall Out Boy, or for any of the mes in between!”  
Pete’s staring again, not sure how to curb my anger. Of course, it was with his smile, “Mariah Carey?”  
“That’s the point Pete, it’s not about who the band are. It doesn’t matter what this means to us. It’s about what it means to them. What it means to the people stood there, desperate to see their favourite band.”  
“So what are we going to do then?”   
“We’re going to play.”  
“How? You just said you can’t hear…”  
“I can hear enough. I can feel the vibrations of Andy’s kit. And I already told you I know your chords without having to hear them… just don’t jump around so much tonight? Turn all my feeds up, and just go with it?”  
Pete’s nodding, grasping my sweaty hand. “We going to do this?” He asks nervously, “You really want to?”  
I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “Damn straight. But first, get me some butter chicken. I’m fucking starving.”  
Pete’s laughing, his hand pulling my up from the toilet lid. “Let’s get the man some chicken!” He shouts, and I know it’s going to be fine. As long as we have each other.


	4. Chapter 4

When we get back to the table Andy and Joe turn to greet us, awaiting an explanation. I twist my hands nervously, but Pete just grabs a menu and marches to the bar to order. I watch him go with admiration, thankful for his loyalty. Joe grabs the other menu and follows him,  
“Bean burger!” Andy shouts after him, like we don’t already know his order.

They’re barely at the bar before Andy turns his attention to me, “What was that about?” He demands, and I can bet Pete’s getting the same interrogation from Joe.  
I shrug, “I just feel a bit sick, but I’ll be fine for the show… sorry, you guys should have ordered without us, we’ll have to make it quick.”   
Andy looks me straight in the eye. “Did something happen in there? With Pete?”   
“No.” I answer flatly, “He just held my hair while I puked.” I wink at him and he lets himself smile, and though he won’t be happy till he gets his bean burger, I know he’s let it go. Best not to worry him until I know the truth… and the consequences it will bring.

**

We reach the venue in the nick of time; though I’m sure the song +44 are playing when we arrive wasn’t on their set list last night. Pete slips away as we change into fresh clothes for the stage, but as I glance out at the crowd I see figures talking in the sound box and my gut tells me it’s him: I just hope he’s not sharing anything that might interest that sound tech enough to pass on to his friends, or worse the media. When a girl in the front row catches my eye in the wings and tugs her friend’s sleeve, her face alight with excitement, I’m reminded to put my own problems on the back burner. I let myself feel the excitement of being on stage, though I’m filled with even more nerves than opening night and I’m already drained from my outburst. Back by my side, Pete squeezes my hand lightly and lets it go again, striding out to own the stage.

I ride the adrenaline through our favourite songs, ‘Dance, Dance’, ‘Thriller’, ‘Sugar we’re going down’, and ‘A little less sixteen candles…’, muddling through as Joe encourages Pete to let loose. It’s working, because when we get to his favourite, ‘Where is your boy…’, he’s spinning wildly. And so is my head, leaving me wondering if not wearing my earplugs is doing more harm than good for my performance. By the time I’m strumming ‘Hum Halleluiah’, I’m exhausted, clutching the microphone and swaying, the gentle melody comforting. I’ve memorised Pete’s lyrics long before tonight, and though I know what they really mean my tired mind is twisting them painfully, reflecting not Pete’s distress but my own.

My words are my faith to hell with our good name.  
A remix of your guts-your insides X-rayed  
And one day we'll get nostalgic for disaster  
we're a bull, your ears are just a china shop

With no energy to spare for logic, my brain is screaming that Pete knew this was coming all along, willing to sacrifice my hearing while he rides his own disaster; my ears just a side note in his path of destruction. Frowning, my fingers are strumming the next chord, my mouth rushing to catch up.

I love you in the same way, there's a chapel in a hospital  
One foot in your bedroom and one foot out the door  
Sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills.  
I could write it better than you ever felt it.

The words linger on my tongue; he’s written it, now I have to feel it. Pete’s staring, willing me to go on, his eyes glazed with anxiety. As they hear my mistakes I’m expecting the audience to dull into hushed whispers and explode again with angry insults. Unbelievably they’re still cheering, so I can only guess Joe and Andy are covering my back, buying time with some stunts. Only, as the chorus rolls back around my voice is cracking, my body shaking.

So hum hallelujah,  
Just off the key of reason  
I thought I loved you  
It was just how you looked in the light.

I take deep breaths between each line, trying to steady my nerve, but Pete’s by my side, talking right into my ear,   
“Stop after the Hallelujahs, we’ll wind the song down, Andy will take a solo so we can talk.”   
Before I have the chance to argue he’s justified his presence at my side to the crowd by pressing his lips to my cheek, and bounded off to pass the message on to Andy and Joe, spinning as he launches himself from the raised platform which houses Andy’s drum set. My face is prickling with warm tears as I sing the final Hallelujahs.

A teenage vow in a parking lot  
"Till tonight do us part"  
I sing the blues and swallow them too

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelu...  
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelu...

My head is swarming with emotions and no matter how hard I try to push them aside I can think of only how I’m letting down the fans; that however this ends I can’t give them what they came for. Joe walks straight past me instructing one of the crew to get him a beer – he’s used to the Pete and Patrick club by now; we all know it’s Pete’s job to make this right again.

“It’s alright,” Pete’s whispering, “Calm down, calm down, it’s alright.”  
I take deep breaths, leaning against him, “It’s not alright though, Pete, I can’t fix this.”  
“What is it?”   
I shake my head, unable to put my feelings into words.  
“Patrick, you don’t have to go through this on your own.”  
But looking into his eyes just makes it hurt more. I hide in my pain beneath frustration, cover up my real fears with pettiness. “You said it Pete, you can write it better than I can ever feel it.”  
Pete frowns at me, “What do you want me to do, Patrick?”  
For once I find myself craving my nickname. “I don’t know.” I mumble.  
Joe’s back with his beer, “What’s happening then?” He demands, taking a long swig.  
Pete shakes his head, “What are you going to do, Patrick?”  
The words feel heavy and sharp around me, filling my head so I can’t think. What am I going to do? What can I do? My whole body is shaking, my head fighting between fear and anger. Their gazes bore into me, reminding me the fans aren’t the only people I’m letting down if I walk away from this. And yet, my body is making decisions for me, shutting down on the spot.  
“He can’t go on like that.” Joe reasons, gesturing to my crumpled figure; the weight of the moment literally crushing me as the questions and emotions push out the other functions of my brain.  
“We’d better go and say thanks.” Pete succumbs, following Joe back on stage.  
I stammer back to the tour bus before the encore shouts begin. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. I wait for Pete to climb in beside me, put his arm around me and tell me it’s alright. I’m still waiting.

**

The crowd roaring for an encore normally fills Pete with the satisfaction of knowing he’s putting on a good show. Tonight it reminds him he’s letting them down, but worse than that: he’s letting down his best friend. He’s failing Patrick when he needs him the most.  
“What’s going on?” His band mates demand of him, and he knows the tour team and the media will be asking next.  
Ashamed of his actions, Pete shakes them off, shouting back, “I can’t talk right now.”  
“You owe us an explanation!” Andy shouts back at him as he walks away.

Slamming the fire exit behind him, Pete runs as far from the venue as he can; eager to stay ahead of the fans soon to be spilling out onto the cold streets. Artificial light bathes the city, blocking out the darkness of the night. Nowhere to hide. Desperate to avoid the glaring brightness, he slumps down against the cold brick wall of a back street, curling up amongst the dumpsters. Patrick’s words ring in his ears: You can write it better than I ever felt it. Only they aren’t Patrick’s words at all.

Feeling for the familiar bottle in his pocket, Pete slips a couple more antidepressants into his mouth. When Patrick is better he must go back to the doctors and get his prescription increased. But for now, Patrick has to come first. So then, why is he running away like this? Isn’t that just as selfish? His thoughts tease him, feeding his anger and self-loathing. Who is he kidding? This isn’t putting Patrick first.

He’s watched his best friend fall apart in front of hundreds of fans, watched him crumble backstage under the pressure of going back out there. He’s seen Patrick Stump desperately try to let the show go on, and have to give up. And here he is: hiding.

He was supposed to help him. He was supposed to stop jumping around so much. He was supposed to be there if Patrick lost time. And what had he done? He lost himself in the moment. He pranced and span and left him on his own. He let down the man who always has his back.

The dampness soaking through his t-shirt only reminds him of his rash overenthusiasm, so he rips it from his body in resentment. His right arm catches his eye: the boy with the thorn in his side inked there forever. That’s him: the boy with the thorn in his side. Right now, that thorn is keeping him from doing the right thing, from being the right person. But it’s too late. He’s already made his decision, and Patrick won’t be there waiting for him to come running back.

It seems like forever before he hears his own name cutting through his desolate thoughts.   
“Pete… here you are.” Though the night is wearing on, the city hasn’t darkened: the blaze of the street lamp above him highlighting Brendon’s body, outlining it with a fuzzy glow.  
Why is he here?   
Brendon crouches beside him, “You look like shit.” He mumbles.  
Pete shrugs, “How’s Patrick?”  
Brendon doesn’t have to say anything to give Pete his answer.  
“I should be there.”  
“Maybe.” Brendon answers, making Pete’s stomach twist and heart ache. “But not like this.”

A groan escapes Pete’s lips. “You should go.”  
Brendon shakes his head, “Let’s get some food.”  
“I just ate.” Pete argues.  
“Then a drink?”  
Pete sighs, “Why are you here, Brendon?”  
“Maybe I’m out of line,” ventures Brendon, “But I care about you.”  
Pete looks up; Brendon’s eyes seem honest, but his youthful face and goofy smile only reminds Pete of his naïveté. “Look Brendon, I appreciate you coming out here but…”  
He has to stop because Brendon’s face is directly in front of his, his hand reaching out to him, “Stop making excuses.”  
Receiving no further explanation, Pete has to ask, “Excuses for what?”  
“For cutting yourself off from the people who care about you.”  
Pete just stares, “What else can I do?”  
Brendon grasps Pete’s arm firmly and pulls him to his feet. “Come back to the bus with me.”  
“I can’t help him.” Pete reasons, “What’s the point?”  
“Pete, he needs your friendship tonight.”

Begrudgingly Pete follows Brendon to the bus. In there, at least, it is dark. Joe stirs as the door clicks open, sliding his body up the bed to face Pete. He so wants answers, but looking at Pete’s ashen face and sweating naked torso, he knows now isn’t the time.  
“Are you alright?” He murmurs into the quiet van, “We were worried about you.”  
Pete lets himself smile. “I’m better now… thanks.”  
Joe nods and reaches down from the bunk to pat him on the shoulder, before wriggling himself back beneath the covers. In Patrick’s bunk, a lump is submerged beneath the covers, pulled in tightly all around him.  
He’s asleep, thinks Pete, he didn’t need me after all.  
Exhaustion catching up with him, Pete grasps the frame of his bunk above Patrick, the prongs of the ladder squeaking distinctly as he climbs up to it.  
“Pete?” Patrick mumbles from beneath the covers.   
The feeling that sweeps over Pete is almost satisfaction; a chance to put things right.  
“Yeah, it’s me.”  
“Pete?”  
For a second Pete wonders if Patrick’s mumblings are coming from deep within a dream, but once he realises he curses himself for ever overlooking it.   
“I’m here.” He repeats, more loudly this time, climbing down from the ladder. He hovers uncertainly at the edge of Patrick’s bunk.  
“Pete, I’m so sorry.”  
“Shhhh.” Pete can’t help himself but lay down beside Patrick, pulling him close. “It’s alright Pat. I’m here.”


	5. Chapter 5

I'm sat in the waiting room of the only doctor’s surgery open on a Sunday with unbooked appointments, too far from home, feeling thankful that the room is all but empty. There's the compulsory-for-a-waiting-room television set in the corner playing some old sitcom with the subtitles showing. I want to ask Pete whether the volume is on at all, but he's got his head buried in a woman's magazine reading about how to release his inner bad girl. Last night’s events remain unspoken, Pete acting as though nothing happened, keeping his secrets to himself.

The woman across the room, who is the only other person in here, is watching the television with such determined intensity that I can't help but wonder if she's trying not to stare. Eventually someone vacates an appointment room, clutching a prescription slip anxiously. My eyes dart to the television woman, wondering who will be called to the newly free room. It's me. When the receptionist calls my full name the woman narrows her eyes, unable to resist glimpsing me, trying to place my familiarity.

"Shall I come?" Pete asks, closing the magazine.  
Accepting that I need Pete in my life, I let myself nod slightly and he follows me to the appointment room, taking a seat beside me. The doctor is still typing quickly at the computer (seriously, could we not have found a private clinic?) and raises an eyebrow as she turns to me, expectant.  
"Sorry," I immediately apologize for my ailment, "I've come about my hearing."   
She nods, "What seems to be the problem?"  
I thought I'd just told her. The silence in the room stretches as my mind takes longer than usual to decode the words her unfamiliar lips are forming and unpack the semantics of her question, until she’s staring impatiently.  
"I've been having trouble hearing recently..." I rephrase my explanation.  
"Okay, have you been experiencing pain in your ears?"  
"No, not really"  
"And is the... problem is in both ears?"  
"I, I think so."  
"Okay, but you can hear me fine at this level?"  
I swallow the lump in my throat her question has summoned. "I can hear a little of what you’re saying, but I'm mostly reading your lips."  
She frowns, "Lip reading is a difficult art, are you-" She covers her mouth for the last part of the sentence, and I hear only muffled noise. It's slightly terrifying. I don’t know how I’ve been lip reading without knowing it, but it seems the only explanation. Even scarier than that, I don’t know how long it’s been. I don’t have the answers; that’s why I’m here.  
"He's not lying." Pete jumps to my defence quickly, dragging me out of my own thoughts.  
"I must collect observations." Maintains the doctor.  
"Listen, I'm a musician, and we're on tour right now, so the faster we can get this sorted..." I venture as I regain my composure, hiding behind the hope that this can all be brushed under the carpet after a quick dose of antibiotics.  
"I understand that," the doctor replies sympathetically, "But this is a complex issue - requires -investigation."  
I swear she's talking faster now that I've told her I'm lip reading, and I find myself frowning as I attempt to guess the words escaping my ears and my brain.

“Okay, you'll need some hearing tests but first I'd like to take a look into your ears.” She points a fancy torch into my ears and looks down the other end of it, beginning to speak again as she stands beside me, her instrument in my ear.  
“Sorry, but can you stand in front of me when you speak?” I pluck up the courage to ask.  
She pulls a face like I'm making it all up now. I'm starting to wonder if it wasn't a coincidence that this surgery was open on a Sunday with unbooked appointments at such short notice. “I said I can't see any signs of infection or a perforated ear drum, and there’s no build-up of wax, which could also have been a culprit.”  
“That's good right, that there's not an infection?” Pete asks naively.   
“We'll see.” Warns the doctor, having ruled out the most treatable causes. “I'll have to refer you to an audiologist.”  
“You mean you don't know what the problem is?” Pete worries.  
“I have an idea.” Reveals the doctor, “But even if I'm right I can't do anything here today.”  
“Well,” demands Pete, “What's your idea?”  
“I it's likely to be s-l hearing loss caused by long term exposure to - loud noise.”  
I look to Pete for help, unable to decode the unfamiliar word, “S- what?”  
Pete repeats the word, mouthing it clearly, “Sens - l”  
It's not enough. I frown, shaking my head. “Can you... write it down?” I mumble the request, embarrassed by my inability.  
“It's just a theory.” Repeats the doctor. “The audiologist will give you all the information they can, until then... I'd advise you stay away from loud noise as much as you can.”  
“We're headed to Iowa tonight but we're in Illinois after that. Can you book me in for an appointment with an audiologist near Moline?”  
The doctor sighs, “I would strongly advise that you do not continue your tour – you could damage your ears further and reduce the chances of repairing what damage has already been done.” She looks at my unreceptive expression and rolls her eyes just slightly, “But yes, I can try to book you into Trinity, when?”  
Pete looks at me, “Tomorrow.” He articulates confidently, seemingly oblivious to the eye rolling.  
“I'll try.” She picks up the phone, flicking through windows on her computer screen until she finds the right phone number. She's not talking for long before she puts the phone to her chest, shaking her head at me.  
“Try Chicago.” I plead, hoping to see Elisa. We don't need to be in Minneapolis until Tuesday, that gives us time.  
She nods, putting the phone back to her ear. There are a number of hospitals in Chicago and after a couple more phone calls she's nodding, scrawling down the details on a sheet of notepaper and passing it over to me.

**

In the car park there’s no missing our huge tour bus. That’s the thing about being on tour; you can’t just nip off and run an errand without the whole band knowing about it. At least the support band and crew’s buses aren’t here too. Andy and Joe were always going to realise there’s something going on with me and Pete, especially after last night; but getting the tour van to detour to a doctor’s surgery and park outside for half an hour isn’t exactly the way to keep things under wraps. They’re sat at the table in the back of the bus, TV off, laptops closed on the couch, phones face down in the centre of the table beside a jug of coffee and a stack of mugs. They gesture to the empty seats as we climb aboard. For a while no-one speaks; we add our phones to the pile and Pete pours us each a coffee while I focus on stirring the spoon round and round the cup. When his hand rests on my arm, I get the same feeling in my stomach I felt yesterday, knowing I have to make it real.

“Okay. Okay…” I keep repeating the word, waiting for my nerves (and my stomach) to settle. “Okay… Okay… Alright…”  
What if this is forever? Could I really go on like nothing had changed? Of course I couldn’t. They would never let me. Telling them will change everything. Only they’re going to want answers. Answers I don’t have.  
“Okay…”  
“Patrick,” Andy’s the sensible one. The one that knows the right thing to say to get us all out of trouble. That’s why I’m surprised when it’s Joe who puts an end to my okays. “You can’t go on pretending nothing is happening… look at what it’s doing. We don’t mind what it is you need to tell us, but if we don’t know what it is then we can’t do anything about it.”  
I blink, taken aback by his sensible words. I wonder if he’ll change his mind when he finds out he can’t do anything about it whether I tell him or not. I’m ready to let them know, I just can’t find the words. I look at Pete for help, but this time he can’t tell me what to say. I try to remember how I told Pete, but I knew deep down he would accept me as anything; the words were easier then.  
“I’m sorry I let everybody down last night.” I begin, “I’ve been struggling…” I take a deep breath but it doesn’t help, so my next breath lets it all out, my eyes closing to their responses. “I’ve been struggling to hear; conversations, music, the TV, my phone, pretty much everything.” 

Inside my head it’s quiet. Only I can’t pretend I’m anywhere else. I’m afraid to open my eyes and hear their responses, but I know now I want their support. I’m more afraid that they’ll leave me to figure this out on my own. 

When I feel like this I normally submerge myself in music; strip it to its bones and reconstruct it, play it, sing it, make it; live it. Convince myself I’m good for something. I don’t want to lose it.

“Patrick!” They’re shouting at me from across the table, drawing me back into the room.   
I open my eyes.  
“What did the doctor say?”  
Pete has to help me this time, whether he wants to or not. His fingers are stroking his own thigh awkwardly but he looks up to acknowledge the question. “Probably over exposure to loud noise. She’s booked us… him… in at an audiologist in Chicago tomorrow. She said he shouldn’t play, or he could make it worse.”  
I brush over her advice. “She used a word… would you write it down for me Pete?”   
Joe raises an eyebrow, surprised at my request. Andy just looks at Pete, waiting for the information. Taking his phone back from the middle of the table Pete types SENSORINEURAL carefully into a message and passes it to me.   
“But what does that mean?”  
He shrugs, “No point finding out yet. Let the audiologist do his job.”  
“What happened last night then?” Andy interrupts,  
“It won’t happen tonight.” I assure him. “That’s all you need to know. I was just… exhausted, over thinking.”  
“You want to play? Even when the doctor says no?”  
“That doctor knew nothing.” I reason, “Let’s play tonight, see what the audiologist says, and talk again after that.”   
They don’t look convinced. “And if last night repeats itself?”  
I shake my head, “I already told you it won’t. Last night was different.”  
Joe directs his next comment toward Andy, who replies, nodding, their expressions serious. The whole exchange takes places with heads turned, voices muffled and lips too concealed to read. I stare, feeling vulnerable and frustrated.

Pete begins to speak before I realise, catching only the last half of his sentence: "- telling Doug.”  
The fear lifts me onto my feet, pushing my chair backwards so hard that it falls to the ground, “Nobody is telling Doug.” I argue as loudly and clearly as I can manage, unsure of any other way to show how serious I am. Their hesitant expressions tell me it’s not enough. “Look, I’m telling you guys this because …as much as I wish it didn’t, this affects you. And I owe it to you guys to… to let you in. And to explain why my performance has been… compromised.”  
For a second I sense a slight relief wash over the faces of Joe and Andy, as though they were glad I brought it up before they could. I try to ignore it, tell myself I’m just being paranoid. Thankfully, they make that easier by replacing their expressions with stern demanding stares.  
“Your performance is our performance too.” Warns Andy, “You could turn fans off the band for good if they think we’re all auto-tune and recording tricks.”  
Joe nods along while Pete’s silence tells me all I need to hear. I stare at him longingly, desperate to have missed the movements his lips made as they carried his protest.  
“This affects us all.” Joe repeats my words, “You owe it to us to let us in. To let us be part of this decision.”  
I shake my head, my body almost bursting with fearful anger. I feel betrayed, but worse than that I’m trapped. Trapped in this bus, trapped in this conversation, and trapped in our schedule.

How could they think that’s okay? This isn’t their secret to share. I should never have told them. Still shaking my head, I pick up my fallen chair, tucking it beneath the table and turning my back on them. Silencing them.

**  
We don’t speak until the gig, where we own the stage; laughing and joking as though nothing has happened. I try to let it fill my consciousness, talking to the crowd to fill my reality with the illusion. Only, when my solo comes around the boys march off stage without a word, not even a pat on the back from Pete. When I noticed all my feeds were turned up I thought that meant they’d begun to see my side, but evidently not. I block it all out, determined to do the right thing. Just one more night and I can take a break, sort all of this out, see Elisa. I finish the song and look to the wings; changing the order of the set list is going to piss them off… but since they’ve already got that covered…  
“This next song’s for anyone out there who’s found their One and Only!”


End file.
